See No Evil
by Signy1
Summary: Newkirk: Sir? You haven't been here five years. How do you know what Schultz was like? Hogan: Oh, I overheard the entire story... As I was telling it to you. Well, what *was* Schultz like, five years ago? How did Stalag 13 mold him into the man he became? One possible answer. Warning: contains references to adult themes, and the abuses and cruelties of war and captivity. Dark.


It was odd, the man mused. The camp was full to bursting with men in bright blue uniforms; with the exception of the very occasional snippet of French, and not counting his fellow soldiers, with whom, as the official Sergeant of the Guard, he was in some sense obligated to speak as little as possible when he was not barking orders, the only language he ever heard anymore was English. Even the ones who were not _actually_ from England usually came from countries England had colonized at one point or another, which struck him as a distinction without a difference, and anyhow it didn't matter. They were all captured enemy soldiers. End of story. Geography lessons were neither important nor necessary. If they were speaking English, they were all Englanders of some sort, and that was good enough for him.

Given that fact, it was distinctly odd, but the undeniable truth was that, when a guard happened to speak of ' _the_ Englander,' there was never any question of whom, precisely, they meant. Oh, _boy_ , was there never any question.

If they broke up a card game, the Englander was the dealer, the one with most of the chips, or both. If there was a fight, the Englander was usually involved somehow; if he was not the one currently being pummeled, (and occasionally he wasn't,) he was on the sidelines taking bets. If food was missing from the guards' mess, the Englander would be licking his chops in a satisfied sort of way. And if there had been a single harebrained escape attempt since Schultz had been at the camp that did _not_ include the Englander in some capacity, he didn't recall it.

The Englander, in short, was ten pounds of trouble in a five pound sack, and Schultz wasn't even surprised when, upon investigating a mysterious shadow near the bakery, he came across—who else?—the Englander, coolly helping himself to a couple of loaves of white bread that were most emphatically not intended for prisoner consumption.

Schultz had been quite proud of himself for foiling the robbery. True, it had not involved a _great_ deal of heroic action on his part; he had really been looking for a quiet corner where he could rest his aching feet for a moment, and he had come across the robbery more or less by accident. Nor had the arrest been overly strenuous; the Englander had simply sighed, put down the sack of bread with a resigned eye roll, and held up his hands, halfheartedly saying, "All right, all right. Kamerad, then. You got me. Kamerad."

Still. A capture was a capture; he had done his duty, and singlehandedly saved his fellow Germans from having to eat the dreadful black bread that they served to the prisoners. He was pleased with himself, and it seemed that the Kommandant was pleased, too. Pleased enough to grant him a twenty-four hour pass as a reward of merit—the first one he had earned in more than a month. The Englander, who, understandably, didn't look pleased at all, was remanded to the cooler for a week. He had glared at Schultz as the door had slammed shut on him, and the glare had been a bit unsettling, but all was otherwise right with the world so far as Schultz was concerned.

And, oh, the pass, the pass was safe in his coat pocket! He would go into town that evening, he decided, and he would eat his dinner at one of the nice little restaurants there. No mess hall messes for him, not tonight. No, instead, he would have sauerbraten. Or perhaps veal schnitzel would be better? Maybe he would have _both_. After all, for the moment, he was a hero, and heroes deserved a few excesses, didn't they?

And afterwards, he would go to the biergarten, and he would flirt with the pretty waitresses, and he would have three beers. Just three. Not enough to get very drunk; it would not be worth the reprimand when he made to back to camp, nor, for that matter, would it be worth the hangover. Three. One because he was thirsty, a second because it would taste so good, and a third so that he could forget the war for a few hours. Eins, zwei, drei beers. Drei beers! That was clever!

Chuckling a bit at his own wit, he went back to his quarters to spruce up a little. He fixed his hair, slapped on a bit of cologne, humming happily to himself all the while. And he left his rifle behind, the dreadful thing. He hated guns. He had hated them in 1914, he'd hated them in peacetime, and he hated them even more now that he was embroiled in yet another war watching yet another generation of young men kill one another. The smile slipped from his face as he thought of it, thought of his dear friend Wolfie who hadn't made it home from Verdun, those bright eyes clouding over as the blood spurted through Schultz's helpless fingers, and it seemed that he could smell it yet, smell the mud and the shit and the gore and the rot and the futility of the trenches.

Then, without quite realizing how it had happened, Wolfie's blood-smeared face shifted, altered, and those bright, laughing eyes changed color, his gray jacket brightened to blue, there in the trenches, there in hell, and God forgive him, Schultz knew it was all his fault…

He shook his head fiercely. Enough of that! If the foolish Englander did not want to be in trouble, he should not have _made_ trouble. Schultz's conscience was clear, he had done no more than his duty, and he had nothing for which he needed to apologize or atone. And tonight was his; a respite from the war and the drudgery and the terrible food.

The terrible, _terrible_ food. The terrible, terrible war. Both. Either.

Author's note: Schultzie is making an incredibly weak pun. In German, 'bier,' meaning 'beer,' sounds very similar to 'vier,' meaning 'four.' It is not actually all that clever, and, as puns go, would barely merit a groan and an eye roll, but if Schultz thinks he's amusing, who am I to criticize?

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

When he returned to camp, after a blissful twenty-four hours of pseudo-civilian life, he was assigned to guard the cooler—not the best duty in camp, but not even close to the worst, either. At least it was indoors. He began making his desultory rounds, past the open cells, past the solitary cells, past the tiny isolation cells. Most of them, he was pleased to see, were open and empty. As it should be, so far as he was concerned. Less work for him, less suffering for them; everybody benefited. Until he came to one that was locked tight, and he sighed. Of course. The Englander.

He slid the observation panel open, peered inside. There was nothing in the cell but what appeared to be a pile of rags in the far corner. Nervously, he opened the door, letting in the light, and the rags flinched, raised his head.

The moment seemed to last forever; Schultz could plainly see the shifting emotions reflected in the man's face. First, dreadfully, came a split-second flash of sheer terror. This was replaced by incandescent fury, almost too fast to see, before his expression shuttered, showing nothing but a flat, weary contempt. "Hallo, then," he said. "Come to get your innings in, have you? I'm afraid your mates started the festivities without you, which I call rude, but I daresay I'm good for at least another couple of rounds. Just try not to take it to heart if I pass out before you're quite finished. No reflection on you as a person."

Schultz just stared at him. He was a mass of bruises. Blood was still oozing from a cut near his hairline. His lip was split, his nose was swollen, his left eye was blackened. There were ligature marks on his throat and wrists. His uniform was torn in several new places, and the cell reeked of urine, vomit, and other things, terrible things, that he couldn't identify and didn't dare try. Horrified, Schultz couldn't say a word, couldn't move a muscle. All he could do was stare at the battered man and think, _he didn't look like that when I put him in here. He didn't look like that yesterday..._

"Well? Get on with it, why don't you? If you're going to beat me, then for God's sake just do it and be done." He laughed, one bitter, bitter half-chuckle. "Just don't bloody sit on me."

"I am not going to beat you!" Schultz, just at that moment, wasn't sure of much, but he knew that. "I do not beat anyone!"

"Good for you," he retorted, obviously not believing a word of it. "Now that we've got that all straightened out, was there anything else you wanted, or can I get back to bleeding in peace?"

Schultz opened his mouth, shut it again, and hurried out of the cell, letting the door slam behind him. With no audience, and thus no reason to continue playing the tough, unrepentant hard case, the Englander let out a breath, and, wearily, let his head drop again, let his tired eyes drift closed, let the lethargic half-sleep claim him again. Sleep helped. Sleep was just about the only good thing left in his world, in fact. It could take him away, take him somewhere that was _not here_ , somewhere that didn't hurt, somewhere safe and warm and quiet, and he told himself firmly that he was _not_ hoping that he could stay there and not have to come back.

He had been in this hellhole of a camp for nine weeks. Which was about eight weeks, six days, twenty-three hours, and fifty-nine minutes too long, by any measurement you cared to name. Although, to give credit where it was due, it did have the advantage of not being the Dulag. The guards here weren't quite as good with their fists as the Dulag interrogators had been. Might as well enjoy that while it lasted. Chances were that if they kept practicing—and he was quite certain that they would—they'd get there. They didn't lack motivation.

Five minutes later—or perhaps five hours; it didn't matter, not down here, and probably not ever again—the door swung open again, and, warily, he lifted his head to see what was going to happen _this_ time. Schultz, a bit out of breath, was standing in the doorway, carrying a bucket full of water.

The prisoner's reaction was immediate. His eyes riveted on the bucket, his entire body jerked in a panicked, involuntary spasm, and he pulled back as far as he could go, flattened his shoulders against the wall of the cell, before regaining his composure with a shudder and a ragged breath.

Schultz didn't understand.

He genuinely didn't understand.

He wasn't a stupid man, and he wasn't blind. He understood jeers and bravado in an objectively hopeless situation. He understood a hungry man stealing food. He did not understand this seemingly inexplicable, ungrounded fear. But the Englander could not keep his eyes off the bucket, and in a sudden, blinding flash of revulsion, Schultz understood that he did not want to know what the man thought he was going to do with it. And he especially did not want to know if his fellow soldiers had already done it. Or if they had already done it more than once.

"Here, Englander," he said, pretending that he had not noticed the panic. "Wash water. It is still nice and warm. And there is soap. You can clean yourself up and you will feel better, ja?"

With an effort, he dragged his eyes away from the bucket, lifted them to search Schultz's face. "I've nothing to trade for it," he said slowly. This was new territory, but it was still German territory, and if there was one thing he had learned since his capture, it was that any path a Kraut wanted him to walk was going to end in pain. It was only a question of what sort, how long, and how bad, and it was a question that never had any good answers.

"You do not have to trade anything. It is for you. You are very messy. You should get clean. So. Take it," Schultz said.

Obviously still looking for the catch, he closed his eyes for a moment as one occurred to him. His voice shook, but only the tiniest bit, well hidden beneath the bravado. Perhaps it would have been undetectable to a man who had _not_ raised five children. "I see. Cleaning me up and getting my clothes off in the process? Well, then. How many guests can I look forward to this fine evening? Just you, or is this going to be a party?"

Schultz's jaw dropped. "Th—That is verboten! We do not do such things! Gott im Himmel—how could you even think such horrors?"

"Easy. I've _met_ a few of you bloody Kraut bastards," the man snarled. "You think you're the first one to get your hooks in me? Sorry to bloody well disappoint! Look, I'm in no mood for your fun and games. Beat me or bugger me; I can't stop you either way. But I'd nothing to say to your SS chums, and I've nothing to say to you now. So sod off!"

 _What have they been doing to this man?_ Schultz thought, aghast. _No. Not 'they.' What have_ _ **we**_ _been doing to him?_

 _What have_ _ **I**_ _done to him?_

 _And for what? A few pieces of bread?_

Schultz backpedaled a step, came up against the door. He took a deep breath, trying to regain his composure. "I do not do such things," he repeated, with as much dignity as he could muster. "I do not _ever_ do such things, verstehen Sie? Be calm."

The Englander had run out of words, it seemed. Run out of defiance, of the will to resist. He just shrugged, minutely, and leaned against the wall again. Schultz cleared his throat, and dug in a capacious pocket, extracting a small packet. "Here," he said, holding it out. "I brought this for my lunch, but I had so much schnitzel that I did not need it. Would you like it?" Hastily, he tacked on, "It is not for trading. Take."

Wash water had been tempting. Food was irresistible. He reached for it before he could stop himself, and once it was actually in his trembling hands, he _couldn't_ have stopped himself for all the jewels in the crown. He'd pay for the indulgence, one way or another, he knew, even as he tore into the sandwich. Krauts were horribly inventive; they'd make him pay, in whatever coin they chose, and in the end, the cost would be far more than the gift had been worth. It always was. But he was already paying, and paying, and paying, and at least this way he would have _had_ it first. With something real in his stomach, he promised himself, he could withstand whatever the fat sergeant had in mind.

Schultz just stood there, his hands dangling helplessly by his sides, watching the young man shove food into his mouth with the frenzied, singleminded focus of an animal, and tried to convince himself that he'd righted the scales between them.

In less time than it would have taken to tell about it, the sandwich was gone, not even crumbs remaining. The Englander hesitated for a moment, then threw what was left of his caution to the winds and stripped off his jacket and pullover to scrub himself clean with the bucket of now-lukewarm water. Well, not all of his caution. He kept his trousers on, pointedly not so much as rolling up the legs even far enough to rinse away the blood from a long scrape on his shin, and Schultz did not fail to notice a suspicious glance or two from the corner of the man's eye as he splashed water over his face and torso.

Under the blood and the grime, he was so damned young that Schultz wanted to cry. His hair had grown out somewhat from the boot camp buzz cut with which he'd arrived, and as he toweled himself dry with his ragged undershirt, one lock of hair looped into a spit curl above his good eye. His youngest boy, little Josef, his hair had done the same thing at bathtime.

The Englander redonned his torn jumper and blood-spattered jacket as quickly as he could, obviously still not quite trusting that Schultz was not going to take the sight of his bare skin as a tacit invitation to do something unspeakable. But he met Schultz's eyes, as he hung the soggy tee shirt up to dry, and the hatred, the fear, in his gaze had dimmed. It was not gone. But it had lessened.

"Thanks, Fritzie," he said hoarsely. Still tentative, still waiting for the trap to spring somehow shut, but someone had taught the young man manners. "It was a kindness."

"Bitte, Englander," Schultz said. "But my name is not Fritz. I am Sergeant Hans Schultz."

He nodded. "Thanks, Schultz," he repeated.

Schultz didn't say anything. There were no more words in him. He just nodded, and he turned to go, closing the door gently behind himself as he went, instead of letting it clang shut as usual.

Schultz went through the rest of his watch in a sort of daze. After an endless, endless day, he found himself back in the guards' barracks, currently blessedly empty. He sat down on someone's bunk and closed his eyes before the tears could fall, but he could still see it. All of it. Layers of bruising on pale English skin. Blood. A flash of fear—fear! Of _him,_ Hans Schultz, who would never, ever hurt a fly if he could help it. Ach, this war, this evil, useless, obscene war…

He sat like that for a long time, his head in his hands, grieving for thousands upon thousands of young men dead, on both sides of both wars. For a boy named Wolfie who had never seen his nineteenth birthday. For a boy named Hans who had learned too young that sometimes, there is no help to be given, and that good intentions are rarely, if ever, enough. For a troublesome Englander locked away in the dark, waiting to see what the next guard assigned to the cooler would do to him. For the children he had left at home who might yet be called to serve, to kill, to die. For the young men who shared his barracks, the ones who had been taught to see nothing wrong with torture and abuse, and for the good men they might have become if they had been poorer pupils. For his country, and the innocence it was losing. Had already lost. For the part he, himself, had played in all of it.

Next time he saw something, he promised himself, he would not say anything.

In fact, from now on, he would see nothing at all.

Nothing.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Author's note: Perhaps the most famous study on the effects of power and obedience is the Milgram Experiment; perfectly ordinary, decent people, forced to realize exactly how cruel they could be, were in many cases deeply traumatized- not by having been hurt, which they weren't, but by having been in a position where they thought they had hurt someone else. I don't think its unreasonable to assume that a basically humane, kind person like Schultz would have, upon being confronted with the potential harm he could inflict, chosen to go to the opposite extreme.

As to the 'Englander,' decide for yourself whether he was a faceless extra or someone more familiar; I went pretty far out of my way to remove any identifying features, because in the final analysis, it doesn't actually matter. He was a very young man caught in the meat-grinder of a very evil war; that's all. Just like Schultz had been, once, just like Wolfie had been, just like thousands upon thousands of others had been.


End file.
